He was clad in typical motorcycle garb – black leather vest,
leather chaps, motorcycle boots, dew rag hanging out of his helmet, hugging a
big black Harley. A rugged, bear of a
man.
Stopping next to him at the red light gave me an opportunity
to critique him like a New York Times book reviewer. My southern mama’s mind went to work
immediately. That is nothing but
trouble.
Then I saw him. Riding shotgun was a miniature replica of Mr.
Motorcycle Dude. Little black leather
vest, a red, white and blue bandana tired around his neck. I could see shiny brown eyes peeping from
underneath wind-blown silver and brown hair. A tiny pink tongue darted in and
out to the rhythm of the distinct rattle of the V-twin engine. Seeming to grin from ear to ear, the little
Yorkshire terrier was sitting pretty in a rigged up safety seat built
especially for him. Four or five pounds of best friend.
Puppy dogs and babies soften even the hardest shell of a
person.
Why do we judge people on how they look? How they dress? Even what they drive?
On second glance, maybe he is a doctor who cares for
terminally ill patients every day except Friday’s when he rides his Harley
through the back streets of DeSoto County to unwind.
Maybe he is a fireman who worked most of the night putting
his own life in danger to save someone else’s family and is headed out of the
city for a break.
Maybe he is a teacher who gets through to the ignored,
abused, forgotten children of our world because they can relate to him.
Maybe he is the butcher, the baker or candle stick
maker. He is someone’s son, dad,
husband, friend.
Whatever he does or whatever he drives or however he is
dressed does not determine who he is.
Except when he is stopped at a red light next to a somewhat
set-in-her-ways, self-proclaimed southern belle with a really hard shell who is learning new lessons on
humanity. (Matthews 7:1)
Every. Single.
Day.
This I know to be true:
Anyone who takes his Yorkie for a ride on his Fat Boy on a beautiful,
sunny Friday afternoon is a hero in my book.
